Winter Writings
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Hades Lord of the Dead has once again challenged us to a month long adventure of writing. Complete now with chapter 30 & 31: Fol de Riddle. Prompts from Stutley Constable and Garonne.
1. Ch 1: Watson's Fav Colour

**A/N: Greetings, holiday readers. Welcome to Hades Lord of the Dead "December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2014". If you want to join anytime during this month, feel free to send her a message through Fan Fiction. Join the creative writing fun! All are welcome.**

**Date: Dec 01**

**Prompt: Holmes deduces Watson's favourite colour**

**From: SheWhoScrawls**

**Warnings: None**

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><p><strong>Ch 1: Watson's Favourite Colour<strong>

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><p>Prying Dr John Watson's favourite colour out of his cranium was harder than stealing the crown jewels out from under the Queen's nose – which, on second analysis, might not be so difficult after all – Sherlock Holmes had figured out seven theoretical ways to nick the gems with a very high probability of success. Unfortunately, his older brother's position in the British government put a damper on the actual testing of his theories…<p>

Anyway, even Holmes' older brother, Mycroft, with his vast pigeon-holed database of a brain that held high-level security secrets and had proven useful on more than one occasion in helping the younger Holmes prove a case, could not answer this particular question. The great detective of the Victorian age who made it his life's purpose _to know what other people do not know_ (1) could not deduce his flat mate's colour of choice. The man remained maddening elusive whenever it concerned the topic.

Early in his career, before Holmes had begun to learn that not everyone had to be on the same brilliant brain wavelength as himself, he'd assumed his friend's favourite colour must be like his own – red. In one of their first cases together, he'd waxed poetic on the colour even. "_There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of lif_e…" he'd alluded to almost reverently (2). Red symbolised action, life and death, fire, blood, crime, and drama – everything that Sherlock Holmes, as a new consulting detective thrived upon, thirsted and hungered after. But, red was not Watson's favourite colour.

Later, as Holmes sat in a rare contemplative mood by the hearth, he considered his friend's profession. Watson was a doctor before he ever became his sidekick in criminal detection. He was first, and always would be, a physician. Therefore, white must be his optimal colour. White to symbolise sterility, cleanliness, hospitals, and antiseptics that cleansed and led to the healing of bloody, red wounds. Surely, white must be Doctor Watson's colour of choice. But alas! No. White was not Doctor Watson's favourite colour.

Well, perhaps the good doctor, who valued trips to the countryside for healthful rejuvenation preferred the calming tones of blue or green? Initially Holmes abhorred nature and all that it represented to his clinical detective eye.

"_It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside…_ (3)".

Later on Holmes did begin to have dreams of bee keeping, apiaries, and the green rolling hills of a Sussex cottage. Such dreams were much later in his career, nearing his retirement though. However, perhaps for Watson, blue and green were not so bad. In the end though, neither Holmes nor Watson chose blue or green as a favourite colour.

"Why won't you tell me? How can revealing such a benign detail like the preference of your colour palate make you clam up like an oyster offered stones for breakfast?" Sherlock Holmes complained. "Is it purple, or fuchsia, or orange, or yellow? Tell me," he almost begged. The mystery was a thorny spicule that festered in his brain. "Watson, even if your preferred colour is pink, it's ok with me. I promise not to hold it against your masculinity."

Watson remained silent and turned the page on the paper he was reading.

Holmes suddenly perked up. "I know, Watson. Gold. Gold must be your favourite colour – shiny, sparkling, with loads of potential for good."

Watson only shook his head to the negative and mumbled, "If gold were my favourite colour, dear friend, I surely would not be living here following you on your detective adventures while neglecting my medical business. No, I'm definitely not drawn to gold."

Holmes let the question drop for the time. His friend was obviously not ready to reveal such an intimate detail.

One night, many years later, after their friendship had solidified into something much deeper than that initial working collaboration, Holmes and Watson stood gazing out into the night, letting the crisp coolness of autumn swirl around and carry their thoughts to nether regions rarely browsed. It was one of those evenings where magic seemed almost to be grasped. The moon had not yet risen and only a few stars twinkled in the vast black blanket of night sky.

"Holmes?" Watson began.

"Yes," Sherlock Holmes verbalised his presence.

"You remember that once, long ago, you asked me what my favourite colour was?"

"I do," the tall, greying detective nodded slightly. "And you never told me either."

"Well, Holmes, black is my favourite colour. Does that seem odd to you?"

Holmes was silent for a few moments. "No," he answered hesitantly. "But, if I may be so bold now as to ask, why do you choose black? The colour is so often associated with death, destruction, filth, and evil."

"The way I see it," Watson finally answered after another long pause. "In this life there will always be pain and suffering. Life's not fair. Both of us see it in medicine and also in the horrible crimes humanity commits against its brother. Bitter burdens are laid upon innocent people. Darkness wraps itself around every aspect of the human condition. We cannot escape it."

Holmes remained silent and contemplative. Savouring this rare moment of heart reflection from his trusted friend and partner.

Watson continued. "And yet, it is from the depths of the nights of suffering and pain that the greatest triumphs of beauty and goodness are revealed. Without the blackness of the velvet surrounding the crystal diamonds, they would never glitter so brightly. Without the blackness in our lives, the brilliant golden hues of compassion, love, and joy would never shimmer so exuberantly. Pain and beauty are inexplicably linked. Without the one; there is no more the other."

He nodded as shadows of death and despair wisped their feathery tassels through his memories and highlighted the shimmering silver hues of life and courage and hope. "Yes, black is my favourite colour. Without the darkness, all other colours would be meaningless."

The two men, friends for many years, shared the silence reverently. There was no need for words. Time hung still. The stars shone luminously against the blackness of the night sky.

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><p>"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be." -Bram Stoker<p>

1. ACD, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

2. ACD, A Study in Scarlet

3. ACD, The Adventure of the Copper Beeches


	2. Ch 2: Whip Crack

**Date: 02**

**Prompt: Whip Crack**

**From: Stutley Constable**

**Warnings: pastiche science**

**A/N: No horses were harmed in the writing of this story.**

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><p><strong>Ch 2: Whip Crack<strong>

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><p>CRACK! Watson flinched involuntarily against the threatening bang of the horsewhip that the carriage driver expertly swung in such a manner so as to produce a very impressive (and thankfully, harmless) snap.<p>

Holmes and Watson were attending a small demonstration of Bavarian cab drivers on the outskirts of London. With a lifetime of practise at cracking their whips, the heart-bounding boom of the whips was spectacularly terrifying. Holmes stated he wanted to attend in order to gain addition data for a case he was investigating. Watson wasn't quite so sure.

"Holmes, why not ask the nearby cabbie how he snaps his whip? Every carriage driver in London practically, carries a whip and knows how to snap one. Why bother going out of our way to watch a special demonstration? And besides, whatever the driver can't teach you, I'm sure you can mange to dig up in a book."

Holmes gave Watson a withering glare. "Dull! Watson, will you never understand the necessity of the most exquisite expertise in detection. It is expedient that I learn the details of whip cracking from the most expert crackers in all of London. Therefore, it is imperative for us to attend."

Now it was Watson's turn to sigh. With a resigned shrug he asked, "Should I bring my gun?"

Holmes nodded to the affirmative.

It didn't take a genius like Sherlock Holmes to deduce there was more than just a bit of crack'in potential at the Bavarian social.

While the two observers stood against the sidelines and watched the whipsnappers create their fantastical display of dexterity and skill, Holmes decided to elaborate on his most recent gleaned information.

"Theories abound as to the precise nature of the sound of the whip crack. There are some that maintain the peculiar noise to which your ears have taken adverse offense is due to the great speed at the tip of the whip – speeds exceeding 1,125 feet per second. In order to achieve such an impressive velocity, one must take a closer look at the physical dimensions and physics of a whip."

Sensing a lecture on the topic whether he liked it or not but also finding an opportunity to step further from the loud whip cracking, Watson nodded. "Please, continue to enlighten me. Let's just step over here, further away from the noise, so I can listen better, Holmes."

The detective obliged and continued his monologue. "As you will observe, Watson, the handle of the whip is much thicker and wider in diameter than the tip of the instrument which tapers to a very small diameter of a wisp, almost. It is this unique design that allows the energy of the handler to be conveyed from the base to the distal aspects whereby it amplifies exponentially and the speeds at the tip of the whip may exceed even sound waves."

At this point, Holmes interjected his own opinion. "Of course, all this is purely conjecture on the part of some questionable physicists and such things as the speed of sound and sonic boom are highly theoretical."

He sighed, "Still one must start somewhere. Anyway, it is at these fantastic velocities of the whip when crossing what's been termed the sound barrier that then create a sonic boom – another dubious term, I'm afraid."

Watson's brain buzzed with all these new theoretical terms snapping to the forefront against the staccato thunder of the whip demonstration. "Holmes," he shouted over the noise, "have you gathered the essential data now? I am beginning to feel it imperative to return to our lodgings."

Holmes nodded.

"Mrs Hudson has cooked a feast for us tonight and gave me strict orders not to be late. I fear, even against the fearsome sounds at this Bavarian gathering that our landlady still wins. She knows how to 'crack the whip' better than any of these coachmen."

"You may be correct in that deduction," Holmes admitted as he turned to head back to 221B Baker Street. "One of the greatest mysteries in acoustics, the true cause of a whip's crack, shall remain undiscovered for the moment."

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><p>AN: Deepest apologies to those of you who actually understand the science behind whips and the characteristic whip snap. Some very interesting theories abound, I discovered.


	3. Ch 3: Of Ice Skates and Friendships

**Date: 03**

**Prompt: ...a tale including ice skates, an old school friend, and a revelation**

**From: mrspencil**

**Warnings: none**

**Ch 3: Of Ice Skates and Friendship**

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><p>It was one of those lingering, bitterly cold winter evenings when a drink shared around the heat radiating from the fireside seems perfectly acceptable, even for someone as dynamic as the detective, Sherlock Holmes. The three of them mostly basked in silence – and, to be honest, quite an impressive cloud of tobacco smoke from pipe and cigar. It was a comfortable silence, each lost in his own personal plume of swirling misty memories.<p>

Stamford was the first to notice the old pair of ice skates stashed discretely in a corner of the room, partially hidden from view by a precariously balanced stash of books and papers. "Watson, ol' fellow, are those your ice skates I see over there?" He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the pair of skates.

Watson looked over in the direction of his former medical school classmate, now near retiring, colleague. "I believe those are Holmes', actually. Not sure if I still own a pair," he admitted with a rueful smile, remembering the times in his youth when he'd spun around on the ice with relative grace and ease.

"What memories, eh?" Stamford smiled, his eyes, half-closed, conjured up images from days of yore.

"Indeed," his friend nodded.

Stamford readjusted himself within the cushions of his chair. "Remember, Watson, how we first met?"

Watson chuckled. "How could I ever forget? Certainly not like my first meeting with Holmes, of which you were a key ingredient, but definitely just as unforgettable."

At the mention of his name, Holmes' eyes opened and he looked over at the pair of men reminiscing across from each other. "Pray tell, how did you two first meet?"

"Well, it wasn't over a cadaver or in the medical laboratory as one might imagine," Watson hedged.

Stamford grinned. "Shall we illuminate the facts of the case for the good detective, ol' friend?"

Watson nodded in agreement. "There'll be no peace for either of us until he's elucidated them anyway." He gave his long time flatmate a quick, knowing smile.

Stamford began, "It was another chilly wintery evening. The two of us, and many other University students, had decided to test the strength of the frozen waters on the nearby pond. Armed with ice skates, hats, and woollen mittens, we braved the winter and skidded merrily over the slippery surfaces. Young Uni students, free for a few hours from the toils of study – those were some glorious moments, I recall."

Watson nodded. The pleasant smile that traced his lips showed his agreement with Stamford's. "Yes, quite an enjoyable winter break for us, lads. I remember our ice skating escapades with pleasure."

"Well," Stamford continued, "not everything went according to plan. That one night, Watson skirted a particularly new patch of ice – the ice wasn't quite thick enough and the poor man went crack – down through the ice and into the freezing water."

Watson shivered involuntarily at the memory. "Talk about cold!"

Stamford glanced over at the doctor. "Anyway, I ended up pulling Watson out and taking him back to dry off. Almost took a tumble through the fragmented ice myself in the process. By the end of the evening, the two of us discovered we shared quite a lot in common."

"And," Watson broke in, "so began a lifelong friendship that has lasted through the years."

Stamford nodded. Holmes studied the two familiar faces before him and let out a contented puff of smoke from his pipe. "Friendships formed through the dirges of adversity often prove to be the most lasting," he observed sagely.

Watson smiled at this. "And you speak from personal experience in this too, for I do recall your own initial contact with that Trevor fellow I wrote about in one of our cases, 'The Gloria Scott', I believe. Ha!" the doctor laughed.

Holmes gave a wry grin and shrugged. "…_I was never a very sociable fellow, Watson, …Bar fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows, so that we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel._

_"__It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective_…" (1)

"Yes, but in our case," Stamford concluded, "it was Watson who had to break the ice, quite literally, in order to initiate our bonds of friendship."

The three men smiled through the haze of tobacco smoke, contented expressions just visible by the flickering light of the flames that burned in the hearth, warming the evening. It's true…there is no predicting the circumstances that might lead to the most enduring of friendships.

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><p>1. ACD The "Gloria Scott"<p>

**A/N: Thank you for your friendship, Mrs P! **


	4. Ch 4 Trapped

**Date: Dec. 04**

**Prompt: Holmes gets trapped somewhere during a case and has to hope that Watson can find him.**

**From: KnightFury**

**Warnings: classic original ACD canon writing versus my silly prose; beware the contrast!**

**Chapter 4: Trapped**

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><p>For Wednesday's Prompt<p>

I must confess –

My schedule is quite swamped.

I maybe, kinda, sorta cheated.

~221b~

It just seemed wrong

To repeat the words

Doyle penned like song,

Mystery after mystery.

~221b~

The angst of Holmes trapped in depression

The cunning skill of Watson's intercession.

A tale of final saving -

Even Holmes behaving.

~221b~

So, now you have my confession

My woeful rhyme cannot compete

With the genius's obsession

And Dr Arthur Conan Doyle.

~221b~

An excerpt from The Reigate Puzzle by ACD:

"…_On referring to my notes [Watson] I see that it was upon the fourteenth of April that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labours could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration…_

_…. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons we were under the colonel's roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he had much in common…_

_"By the way," said he suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm."_

_"An alarm!" said I._

_"Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at large."_

_"No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the colonel._

_"None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this great international affair."_

_Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him…"_

…. And so began the mystery at Colonol Hayter's country estate and Holmes' ultimate rescue out of the trap of depression.

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><p><strong>AN: Yeah, I know. Perhaps this will entice you, if you haven't recently, to read the entire puzzle in The Adventure of the Reigate Squire found in ACD's Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.**


	5. Ch 5 Turkey Trouble

**Date: Dec 05**

**Prompt: A lost and lonely turkey. A hungry family. A smitten Mrs Hudson. In short, a dilemma**

**From: Catherine Spark**

**Warnings: Pure silliness written in the wee early hours of the morning. No plot.**

**A/N: I personally like turkeys.**

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><p>Ch. 5 Turkey Trouble<p>

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><p>Mrs Hudson was in a real quandary. Conflicting emotions. Seemingly opposing desires…not a very pleasant situation for the usually calm and resourceful landlady to find herself. And, she wasn't too happy about it.<p>

"Why do you have to have such a long, graceful neck and brilliant amber eyes that blink with such human expression?" she moaned inwardly as she surveyed the lone remaining turkey in the market.

The handsome turkey put one foot forward and jutted out his well-preened breast feathers just a plume more. One eye blinked back at Mrs Hudson and she could almost swear he raised a turkey-eyebrow with his unabashed wink.

"Oh, and not too humble either, are you?" Mrs Hudson found herself liking the somewhat egotistical turkey with a firm grip on his self-esteem. "Cheeky bugger," she chuckled. "Just like another fine looking man I know."

The turkey scratched in the dirt a couple times and then stared back up at the landlady/ prospective purchaser of turkey dinner.

"You certainly don't seem too afraid about being eaten for someone's supper," Mrs Hudson clucked at the bird. "Don't you know you're the last bird standing and the next customer will ship you off to the butcher's to be prepped for his dinner?"

Turkey raised his beak just a sniff and chose to ignore such insulting words.

Mrs Hudson was torn. The turkey was on sale, a real bargain. She had just enough money with her. He would make the perfect gift for the needy family a few doors down that had more than one little hungry mouth to feed. She knew they desperately could use a proper meal, especially with the holidays. She could picture the cheers and howls of laughter and joy from the children as they feasted on such a meal.

"This is terrible," she grumbled to herself. "Here I am attributing human emotions to a bird and feeling bad about planning on killing him in order to feed a hungry family." She paused and considered her options. The bird was on-sale and was definitely the most food for the least amount of coin. She'd never find such a steal-of-a-deal this holiday season. And…he would make the perfect centrepiece…

"Oh, what a muddle I've gotten myself into." Mrs Hudson cocked an eye over at the turkey still looking up at her expectantly. "Well, what do you think I should do?" She addressed the bird.

He seemed startled for a moment and then chortled as only turkeys can.

Mrs Hudson listened. She didn't understand turkey-speak but slowly an idea began to form in her head. "It's far-fetched with quite a few potential pitfalls but, it just might work." She smiled to herself. "I'll try it."

The resourceful lady made up her mind and bought the turkey. She stuffed him in her market bag where his feathers became horribly ruffled. She gave the bird a smirk as he poked his head indignantly out of the shopping basket. "Tut, tut," she waggled a finger his way. "Don't you dare jump. You'll be home soon enough."

Some time later…

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock Holmes shouted down the stairs to Mrs Hudson who was humming happily away in her kitchen baking holiday scones. "What's a turkey doing in my living room?"

Mrs Hudson poked her nose round the corner with an innocent expression, flour dusting her hands. "Oh, him? Well, it appears he is sitting in your chair. He looks quite comfortable too," she observed astutely.

"Yes, yes," Holmes spoke impatiently. "I can see he's in my chair but why? And where did he come from?"

"He appears to have taken quite a liking for your chair, Mr Holmes. As to where, that's simple; I found him in the market this afternoon. He looked lonely and needed a home."

Holmes snorted. "Lonely! He's a bird."

"Birds can have feelings too," Mrs Hudson sniffed defensively.

The turkey seemed to give a nod in agreement with this last statement.

"Well, if I've answered your questions, then I really must finish baking." Mrs Hudson turned to leave.

"Wait," Holmes said. "You can't just leave me here with this turkey."

"Why not? Where else is he supposed to go? He seems to have taken to your little flat. Perhaps you could offer him a cigar?" Mrs Hudson winked at the turkey and smiled back at Holmes.

"No, no, no. This is all wrong! I don't want a turkey. I didn't ask for a turkey. I don't want a turkey sitting in my chair or, for that matter, anywhere in my flat."

"Well…" Mrs Hudson hedged a few moments.

Holmes gave her a sharp look. "What?"

"Perhaps I could arrange for a new home at my sister's farm. It'll cost money to get him there and since I spent my last few pennies saving him from the butcher's, it would be nice to have a little extra to buy Jimmy's family a couple chickens to supplement their meagre Christmas fixings…" She waited for Holmes reaction.

Holmes stopped. Silence. He cocked his head at the turkey and then gave Mrs Hudson another critical gaze. "You two," he muttered. "Fine. I'll give you money to buy Jimmy's family a proper Christmas meal, and," he pointed to the bird, "get this fellow off to a home on the farm at your sisters."

"Deal," said Mrs Hudson smiling. Her plan had worked. Mr Turkey would have a nice home in the country and be saved from a premature death on the dinner table and Jimmy's family would have a proper Christmas feast.

Later that evening, after Mr Turkey had been shipped off to his new home and Holmes was enjoying his own chair again before the fireplace, Mrs Hudson brought up a tray with tea and steaming fresh scones. "Merry Christmas, Holmes." She smiled contentedly. Dilemma solved.


	6. Ch 6 & 7: The Shot

**Date: Dec 06, 07**

**Prompts: 'Bank shot' & 'Rollmop herrings'**

**From: Stutley Constable**

**Warning: none**

**A/N: I realise 'bank shot' has many connotations: a film, a novel, a basketball move, a shot in billiards, or even a song… so many options. I'm afraid I didn't choose the most colourful of the options so I apologise in advance if the expectations were a bit higher for this prompt. As for rollmop herrings…. Well, let's just say I've been introduced to a new term.**

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><p>Chapter 6 &amp; 7: The Shot<p>

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><p>"Absolutely not," Holmes leaned back in his favourite chair and blew an emphatic puff of smoke from his pipe as he turned languidly toward the Inspector Lestrade.<p>

"But he's our best witness," Lestrade protested.

"Not anymore," the lounging detective countered without emotion.

"You haven't even examined the crime scene at the bank," the Inspector pointed out. "I can't allow you to simply toss out my key witness. It's…it's…just not proper," he sputtered.

Holmes opened his keen eyes a hair wider and turned to face the inspector. "I cannot say whether your witness is lying intentionally or not but I must seriously caution you to avoid taking anything he says as the truth. It may be that he well thinks he is helping you, but in my line of work, I have found that a man who swears up and down he heard or saw, without the slightest doubt, is less than an ideal witness. They're too willing to mould their testimony to fit expectations rather than reality. Any such affidavit should never be relied upon." The lean detective stretched and gave the Inspector a knowing look.

Lestrade sighed. Holmes had an annoying habit of being correct in his predictions. "Then at least tell me, Holmes, how can you be so sure that the man is fabricating his testimony?"

The detective suddenly sat up and leaned forward, focusing his gaze on the Inspector with that characteristic intensity that made even the D.I. squirm self consciously, sure that he could see straight into his deepest secrets. "Think, Inspector. Consider the facts of the night of the burglary. _All _the facts," he emphasised.

"But I have!" the Inspector protested.

"Let us begin with the supposed witness account then, shall we?" Holmes steepled his hands together. "First, the man maintains that he was closing up his shop at the hour in question. This was at quarter past eight, per his reckoning. Shortly thereafter, he was walking his usual path home and as he rounded the corner near the bank, he heard two distinct shots coming from the direction of the bank, and which, with such remarkable audio acuity he pinpoints both coming from inside the bank building, one several seconds after the other."

Lestrade nodded his agreement.

Holmes continued. "With such intense hearing ability, do you not find it surprising that he did not hear any other noise such as a shout or door slamming. Surely the injured banker must have made some exclamation when the bullet grazed his shoulder?"

Holmes paused. The D.I. chose to remain silent and let the detective continue. He couldn't disagree.

"I must admit that I find it a curious fact that our key witness volunteered his testimony AFTER reports that the banker fired his shot in self-defence after being shot at by the burglar. I might also bring it to your consideration on the remarkable silence of any other witness. Surely there were other people within range at that time of night who should have heard the bank shots?"

"None have come forward," Lestrade shook his head. "They all maintain they did not hear anything out of the ordinary at that particular hour."

"Strange, is it not?" Holmes quirked an eyebrow at the Inspector.

The Inspector shrugged. He hated to admit it. "Well, when you put it like that, I suppose yes, it is a bit odd."

"If that is not enough to make you question your witness, let me ask you once again to consider ALL the facts."

"But, surely…"

"What was the weather like on the night in question, I ask you?" Holmes ignored the D.I.'s outburst. "And, have you looked into the relationship between your witness and the banker?"

The Detective Inspector had not. He clenched his fists in irritation. Holmes was a man he found invaluable and really, if he was honest, couldn't function without him, and yet…and yet, the man could drive a Scotland Yard detective up a wall!"

Without waiting for Lestrade's answer, Holmes merely shifted his gaze toward the burning embers in the fireplace. "I believe, if I'm not mistaken (and I rarely am) that London was having quite a heavy rain storm consisting of some rather booming shots of thunder. It would have been a miracle to have heard anything within the gale, let alone differentiate a shot in the bank from a peal of thunder. And, if you need any further reason to doubt the witness…"

"No, no, it's quite all right, Mr Holmes, you've made your point," the Inspector grumbled."

"Ah, well, I might as well finish," Holmes gave a wan smile. "Mr X, it appears, is the son-in-law of the injured banker. Quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

The D.I. could only nod glumly. His key witness had crumpled like a dried out autumn leaf under the meticulous interrogation of Holmes.

"But cheer up, Inspector," Holmes brightened perceptively as another idea crossed his mind. "I do recall Mrs Hudson has prepared some excellent rollmops*. All is not lost after all."

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><p>*Per Wikipedia, rollmops are pickled herring fillets rolled around a filling such as an onion, pickle, pimento, or olive. They are often skewered with two small wooden sticks.<p>

**A/N: Apologies for combining two prompts into one writing project, but, well, it's been a bit hectic for me in RL. I will maintain that having an operation in the hospital and moving into a new house give me the right to be just a tiny bit creative in trying to catch up with writing. Thanks for your understanding.**


	7. Ch 8,9,&10

**Date: Dec 08, 09, & 10**

**Prompt: "I need to go iron my dog"**

**From: Lucillia**

**Prompt: "Things get steamy between Mrs Hudson and … Mycroft?!"**

**From: Poseidon – God of the Seas**

**Prompt: Holmes is sick with a high fever and starts hallucinating.**

**From: cjnwriter**

**Warnings: Wouldn't you like to know!**

**A/N: So many possibilities with this one…**

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><p>Chapters 8,9,&amp;10: Is it hot in here?<p>

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><p>"Oh! Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson exclaimed in surprise as her eyes widened in disbelief to see the elder Holmes, Mycroft, standing at her landing, a more urgent demeanour about him than behoves the British Government.<p>

"No time to explain," Mycroft pointed to his helpers to carry the pale, and eerily still form of his younger brother, Sherlock, into 221B and up the stairs. He was flushed from the unaccustomed exertion and excitement and mopped his brow with his handkerchief as he climbed behind his men up to the detective's flat. "Mrs Hudson, I have already summoned Dr Watson. He is on his way as we speak but if you would be so good, I'm sure he will want some hot water and towels at the very least when he arrives. Would you be so kind as to accommodate?"

"But, of course, Mr Holmes." Mrs Hudson scurried off to the kitchen to start the water boiling and bustled about finding some cloths.

Mrs Hudson returned with an armful of the requested necessities just in time to overhear the prostate, but thankfully, still alive, detective emit a low moan from the recesses of the sofa on which he'd been laid. "The pirates, Mycroft, they've returned. Oh, be careful…" his voice trailed off in apprehension and his expression bore that of unreserved horror.

Mycroft gave a helpless shrug. "He's been like this since the fever suddenly overcame him this morning, I'm afraid. On and on he babbles about pirates and galleons, swords and sinking ships. When we were children, we used to pretend we were pirates, sailing the seas, finding treasure, and fighting off the evil pirates. It appears this illness has caused these childish hallucinations."

With a worried frown, Mycroft plopped down in the chair nearest his brother's head and took one of the cloths from Mrs Hudson to wipe his ailing brother's forehead. "Perhaps a cool cloth for the head," he muttered absently. "His fever seems to be rising."

Mrs Hudson scrambled off to find some cool water too.

"Oh, Mycroft, run. Run!" the fevered detective moaned helplessly. He waved a limp hand in a fruitless gesture of warning toward the imagined danger. "Back, I say, don't take another step."

Mrs Hudson froze in the doorway with the request water.

The elder Holmes turned toward her. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson, please pay no attention to his ramblings. He means no harm by them. He is not even aware of his true plight, I'm afraid. Do come in. And, thank you for the water." He took another small towel and with the cool water from Mrs Hudson made a compress for his fevered brother's forehead.

"It's the dreaded Pirate, Redbeard!" the ill Holmes suddenly sat up from his supine position on the pillow, and let out a high-pitched, fevered shriek.

"Help me to lie him back down," Mycroft instructed Mrs Hudson. Together the two of them soothed the frightened man and managed to settle him onto the sofa again.

"Everything will be just fine. Just rest your eyes." Mrs Hudson soothed the frail lodger whom she'd rather grown accustomed too in spite of his eccentric manners.

Just then the pair heard frantic footsteps on the stairs. "I came as soon as I heard," Dr Watson burst through the door, eyes wide with panic. "How is he?" He strode over to his friend's side and immediately began his clinical ministrations. "Rapid pulse. Fever. Pale and sweaty…" he muttered to himself taking mental notes.

As he rustled through the contents of his medical bag, he turned to Mycroft. "How long has he been like this?"

"Just this morning, Doctor, I assure you." Mycroft answered earnestly. "Against my better judgement, he's been working night and day on a case. I warned him he was working too hard but you know how he gets, Dr Watson, when he's intense on the trail of the criminal."

"Only too well," Dr Watson shook his head and reached for the clean towel and steaming hot water that Mrs Hudson proffered.

"Mrs Hudson has been kind enough to fetch the water and towels as I requested and has gone above and beyond the call of duty for a landlady, I'm sure, but, is there anything else you might require, Dr Watson?" Mycroft asked. The steam from the pot of boiling water that Mrs Hudson hoisted wafted up in a curling torrent between them.

Mrs Hudson blushed under the unexpected warmth in the elder Holmes' heartfelt expression of gratitude. (Although she maintains it was the heat from the steaming pot of water that caused the sudden rosy colour to her cheeks).

Watson was preoccupied in his concern over his ailing patient and took no notice of the knowing glance of mutual understanding between two people who cared deeply for the detective under their more casual veneer.

"I have everything I need at the moment," the doctor answered in reply to Mycroft's query. "If we can just get this fever down, I think we can hope for a full recovery." He set about doing all in his training to relieve his patient's fever and suffering.

Mrs Hudson coughed discretely.

Mycroft turned his glance from Mrs Hudson and back to his ailing brother. "It is getting a little hot in here. I think I will just open the window a crack and then step outside for a moment." His voice trailed off. "I just need to go iron my dog."

* * *

><p>AN: ***writer lets out a satisfied and evil chuckle*** Well… I seem to have fallen down into the slippery slope of combining prompts. So much to write. So much to read. So little time. Sorry, dear readers! I do rather feel accomplished at being able to combine these prompts though…

And, in case you aren't familiar with the phrase, "I need to go iron my dog" (I certainly had never heard of it until now), apparently it's one of those nonsensical excuses one mutters when they just want to escape from a particularly tedious or onerous situation. I might need to remember it next time I'm at one of those obligatory boring social obligations.


	8. Ch 11: Choir Practice

**Date: Dec 11**

**Prompt: Singing in a choir**

**From: Emma Lynch**

**Warnings: Unedited. Pure silliness. No sacrilege intended.**

**A/N: For Jack63kids ... Happy Birthday!**

* * *

><p>Chapter 11: Choir Practice<p>

* * *

><p>The choirmaster dropped his baton with a sigh. "What now, Mr Holmes?" The entire chorus came to a halt as all eyes turned toward the tall, lean detective waving his hand furiously from the bass section.<p>

"I find the implication of the words in this song to be incongruous with the reality of the scene it's venerating. Take the first few lines," Holmes began. "'Silent night, holy night; all is calm, all is bright round yon virgin mother and child…" although I have not personally been subject to the rigors of a birth and the events following, my colleague, Dr Watson, will attest that there is nothing quiet and still about the birth of baby and the ambience thereafter…"

"Yes, yes, Mr Holmes, I realise the writer of the carol may have taken some liberties in their portrayal of the scene for the sake of the sentiment but can't you just sing along with the notes and refrain from analysing the historical accuracy for the sake of our soon coming Christmas musical, please?" There was a hint of desperation in the choirmaster's expression; one of almost resigned hopelessness though, if truth were told.

Mr Holmes grumbled under his breath but resumed his position in the choir.

~221b~

"O little town of Bethlehem,

How still we see the lie!

Above they deep and dreamless sleep…"

~221b~

The sacred tones of the chorus rose upward in melodious harmony and the choirmaster smiled inwardly as he closed his eyes and soaked in the music. So beautiful! Suddenly the music ceased.

His eyes flew open and immediately his gaze directed toward the men's section. He groaned. Holmes again.

"In the interest of full disclosure, I feel it is my duty to point out that this 'little town of Bethlehem' was technically not so little. In fact, back in the era that the song implies, the town was a bustling hub of people and animals. It was large enough that the Caesar back then used the city as a central reporting location for taxation purposes, hardly the sleepy, 'deep and dreamless' town we laud in this lullaby."

"Your objections are factually correct, of that I have no doubt," the choirmaster began, utilising all his inner self control to refrain from bursting an artery. "But, please, for the sake of the art, for the sake of our practice time, can we continue without another history critique?"

The consulting detective huffed in undisguised petulance but remained quiet.

~221b~

"We three kings of Orient are:

Bearing gifts we traverse afar

Field and fountain, moor and mountain,

Following yonder star."

~221b~

The choirmaster was just beginning to relax and feel the rhythm and inspiration of the sacred hymns as the first minor notes were sung. But, the moment was not to be for long.

"Mr Holmes! Can't we at least get through one full carol before you lecture us on the inaccuracies?"

"I merely felt you should be informed that it would be quite improbable that the 'three kings of Orient' travelled over moor and mountain based on their trajectories from the East to the West. It is much more probable that they crossed desert and plains." Holmes sniffed with an air of injured pride. He was merely trying to keep the facts straight. Why was everyone so upset?

At last, the choir came to their final piece. It had been an evening practice fraught with many interruptions from their talented bass musician. If he hadn't been so capable, admittedly, a few of them might have tossed him out the church window.

~221b~

"Hark! The herald angels sing,

Glory to the newborn King;

Peace on earth, and mercy mild,

God and sinners reconciled!"

~221b~

The choirmaster listened to the words of the hymn. 'God and sinners reconciled'… he chuckled inwardly. Oh yes, he could think of one in particular who might need quite a bit of reconciling… He wondered if he could just be an invisible witness on that particular discussion.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Dedicated to a dear friend, Jack63kids, for her birthday. Happy Birthday, my friend - I sincerely pray your own choir experience is far different than the one I have painted here LOL!**


	9. Ch 12: Home is where the Holmes is

**Date: Dec 12**

**Prompt: Homecoming**

**From: I'm Nova**

**Warnings: none…so far…**

**A/N: This was an interesting prompt for me. I learned about the origins of a homecoming celebration. Did you know that homecomings are traditionally attributed to the United States? Although there is some debate as to the first official homecoming, Southwestern University is often touted as hosting the first in 1909. Traditionally, homecoming is an event to welcome back alumni of a school. It is often celebrated with sports events, parades, and other cultural events. Most of the time, it is held in the autumn months.**

**And now, because, I am, in the words of Arthur Conan Doyle, '_the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather_', I present to you my free-association inspiration for the prompt – a different kind of 'home coming'.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 12: HOME SWEET HOLMES<p>

* * *

><p>H – hungry for mystery<p>

O – oblivious of danger

M – measured in his deductions

E – energetic in his pursuits against crime

~221b~

_"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world."_

― ACD, The Sign of Four

~221b~

S – steadfast in his work

W – wielder of both sword and violin bow

E – enigmatic

E – eliminator of the impossible

T – tobacco smoking

~221b~

"_Dr. Watson's summary list of Sherlock Holmes's strengths and weaknesses:_

_…_

_10. Plays the violin well._

_11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman…_

_― ACD, A Study in Scarlet_

_"I think, Watson, that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have so often and so justly condemned."_

- ACD, The Devil's Foot

~221b~

H – human after all

O – observer of trifles

L – lover of all that is bizarre

M – Moriarty destroyer

E – expert in his profession

S – secret loyalty to his friend, Dr Watson, beyond what words can convey

~221b~

"_Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson."_

-ACD, The Adventure of the Dying Detective

_"I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of daily life._"

― ACD

_"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."_

― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Boscombe Valley Mystery

"_If I were assured of your [Moriarty] eventual destruction I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept my own."_

-ACD, The Final Problem

_"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_

_It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."_

-ACD, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So there you have it! Home with Holmes … for what's a home without some good ol' Sherlock Holmes to grace its bookshelves?**


	10. Ch 13: A Destructive Force

**Date: Dec 13**

**Prompt: A destructive force**

**From: Hades Lord of the Dead**

**Warnings: Angst.**

**A/N: 4 letter abbreviations refer to the ACD canon stories from which italisized quotes come from**

* * *

><p>Chapter 13: To Destroy and Consume<p>

* * *

><p>It began innocuously enough. It was their anniversary. The ever-romantic Dr John Watson chose the flowers with care. He knew red roses were her favourite because of their sensuous perfumed scent. Mary was going to love them. He couldn't wait to give them to her.<p>

"Darling! They're…they're just gorgeous. But, really, you shouldn't have…" her protests were utterly lost upon her doting husband's ears as she buried her nose rapturously within the scarlet petals.

Eyes closed, she breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrant roses. "Ah…so lovely…" she murmured to herself, lost in her enjoyment of the bouquet.

Watson beamed at her obvious pleasure.

Suddenly she gave a sharp involuntary gasp. "Oh?" she cried out in dismay. "Ouch!" A puzzled expression flitted across her face and she ceased her olfactory explorations.

"What is it, dear? What's the matter?" Watson frowned, worried.

Mary straighten up and smoothed her face. "Oh, I'm sure it was nothing, love. I have been over working these past few days. I'm sure it's just a touch of rheumatism or something. I must have been a little too energetic in my excitement over such beautiful roses." She giggled anxiously. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

Watson nodded. "Yes, everything will be fine. I'll just have to more vigilant over my little Mary and make sure she doesn't overwork." He gave her a mischievous smile, trying to be more reassuring than he felt inside.

Mary chortled. "Don't you worry, doctor Watson. I'll be sure to sniff my flowers more gently from now on."

Watson grinned. "Everything's going to be just fine, honey."

But everything was not 'just fine'.

~221b~

The tall, austere professor whose hair was now a distinguished salt and pepper grey, strode resolutely between the aisles of his classroom. He watched each pupil with hawk-like, keen obsevation while they plied pen and ink to his latest pathology examination.

The young medical student, Jon Watson, frowned, pen poised, but unable to decide what to write.

"Think, Watson." The professor, Dr Bell, rasped behind his confused pupil's head. "Medicine is a science based upon observation, facts, and logical reasoning. _Never guess. It is a shocking habit — destructive to the logical faculty_. (SIGN)

Watson smiled anxiously up at the tall professor whom he had much respect. The man was a legend at the school. "I just don't know, Professor. I can see too many options."

Dr Bell leaned over at the particular examination equation in question_. "In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practise it much. … Now, …You know my methods. Apply them_. (STUD)

Watson nodded a bit dubiously. "Yes, Dr Bell. I will do my best." With renewed vigour he attacked his examination.

As the Professor turned to leave, he paused. And one last thing, remember, as you check over your answers on this test, "_It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts_. (SCAN)

Watson gripped his pen more tightly and gave a grim nod. He would do his best and pray that by some miracle, he might pass. Dr Bell was one of the most exacting of teachers. His attention to the details, the "trifles", as he termed them, were remarkable and famous across campus.

~221b~

The year was 1882. The German scientist, Robert Koch, bent his eyes over his microscope once more. "Ha! There you are," he whispered with a satisfied air of triumph. He copied down into his scientific journal his observations with meticulous care. "Their unusual lipid-rich, waxy coating appears to make them impervious to the most common of chemical stains except for the newly developed Ziehl-Neelsen (acid-fast stain), which renders them visible under my microscope as brilliant red bacilli (rod-shape). They are a slow-growing entity and under the most ideal culture conditions, I can manage but to enable them to replicate once every 15 to 20 hours. Curiously enough, they are obligate aerobes and thrive in an oxygen rich environment. But probably the most amazing phenomena I have observed is how extremely resilient the organisms are to cleaning agents and even drying. I have observed their survival outside their host medium for weeks!"

Resistant and tenacious.

~221b~

Dr Watson read the reports of his contemporary German colleague with growing fascination. "Mary," he cried out with a glimmer of budding excitement.

"Yes, dear," a feeble, female voice echoed from the bedroom chamber followed by a hacking cough.

"Mary, my dear, I think this Doctor Koch in Germany may have found something significant. He claims to have indentified the causative agent and even perhaps, have discovered a cure."

"Why that's wonderful, dear!" Mary quietly proclaimed and laid her pale, arachnid fingers upon his shoulder as she shuffled behind him in his reading chair. The chronic lack of oxygen in her body had already changed her fingertips into blue-tingled bulbous protuberances. "Clubbed fingers" was what the physicians termed it. To Mary, it meant she couldn't keep house and go out with her friends that way she would have liked. She rarely had the energy to even stroll through her beloved rose garden now. The disease was consuming. Ravaging. Destroying. Tenacious. Resistant.

~221b~

The two doctors sat opposite each other, sipping a pint in the Berlin pub. The German doctor-scientist leaned earnestly over his most recently published postulates. The public termed them the Koch Postulates. "See here, Dr Watson, this proves that the microorganism must be responsible."

Dr Watson read over the four postulates:

1. Organism must be found in abundance in all victims suffering from the disease but not in healthy organisms.

2. It must be isolated from the diseased and cultured in pure medium

3. The organism must then be inoculated into a healthy subject

4. The inoculated subject must then become diseased and the organism isolated from it and identified as the original causative agent.

"Well, I can concur with your postulates, I am just not so sure about your cure, this so-called 'tuberulin' that you say has healed all those patients in your ward." Dr Watson considered all that he'd observed in the German sick ward teaming with so-called "cured" individuals.

The words of his old friend, Sherlock Holmes, echoed in the back of his brain. _It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it. If you were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact_. (STUD)

He wasn't sure he could pinpoint precisely why he doubted, but something wasn't right. That 'gut-feeling' that more than once had told him when someone was ill or dying although all the superficial facts pointed to the alternative churned uneasily in his stomach.

"Dr Koch," I'm just not convinced. A friend of mine whom I learned to respect his wisdom in spite of my initial misgivings when we first met up used to say, '_When a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation'_ (STUD). What am I missing?

What Dr Watson was missing was a real cure. Dr Koch had identified the causative agent but he'd failed in finding the cure.

~221b~

The microorganism was cavernous. Consuming. Relentlessly destroying. Poor Mary!

"Is that you, dear?" Mary whispered feebly from her bed.

"Yes, I'm home, Mary." The doctor wearily stepped into their home. His clinical eye couldn't help noticing the bloodstained handkerchiefs, the catechetic face, the thin purplish lips. He sat down on her bed and tenderly cradled what was left of his rapidly fading willow-o-wisp of a wife. "Oh, Mary," he crooned.

Together they clung to each long into the evening, neither willing the moment to end; each realising any breath could be the last. The microorganism was a consuming, unremitting progression. The doctor was helpless to stop it.

~221b~

In the end, the tiny red, rod-shaped microorganism, invisible to the naked eye but never satiated in its appetite for death and destruction, prevailed. The caseasting, cavernous, granulomatous disease, mycobacterium tuberculosis, a.k.a. consumption, succeeded where the best scientists failed. It consumed Mary (and all its other victims) without remorse. And, in spite of the scientific method, detailed observation and logical deductions, the disease always triumphed. No amount of cool analytical logical reasoning could numb the pain in Dr Watson's heart. His Mary was gone – consumed. His grief was not reasonable or orderly. It defied logic. And his grief consumed him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This piece is my tribute the millions of victims of the disease that is now known as tuberculosis or more succinctly, TB.**

**Back in Victorian times, TB was known as consumption. In 1882, Robert Koch, a leader in the germ theory, identified the causative agent as mycobacterium tuberculosis. Back then; about 1 out of every 7 deaths was attributable to the disease. The first real treatment for TB was not discovered until the introduction of the antibiotic, streptomycin, in the 1940s. Worldwide, there are estimated 8-10 million cases of TB each year. About 10,000 of these new cases are in the United States.**

**If you are interested in more details about the relationship between the German scientist Dr Robert Koch who discovered the bacterium and Arthur Conan Doyle who was desperately seeking a cure for his wife, sick with consumption… read "The Remedy: Robert Koch, Arthur Conan Doyle, and the Quest to Cure Tuberculosis" Published in April 201**4


	11. Ch 14 & 15: An Unexpected Talent

**Dates: Dec. 14 and 15**

**From Poseidon - God of the Seas - Watson discovers an unlikely talent.**

**From I'm Nova - Kid!lock**

**Warnings: None**

**A/N: Um….**

* * *

><p>Chapter 14 &amp; 15: An Unexpected Talent<p>

* * *

><p>"Do it again, do it again!" the other primary school children crowed around the strapping young lad, John Watson, and craned their eight and nine year-old necks to see around their taller classmates. A group of almost fifteen boisterous and energetic boys and girls all tried to get a better view of the sturdy lad in the middle.<p>

John Watson was almost nine years old. He slightly shorter than your average primary school boy but his strong bones and muscular build gave him a sturdy look that meant the other lads were none too slow to invite him to play on their sports teams. Generally the boy was well liked. He was tolerant of the small offences and considered mild-mannered – unless he felt injustice was at hand – then, well, then let the offender beware! A few of the bullies in school had found John's knuckled fist rather unexpectedly and now kept a healthy check on their harassment tactics whenever they thought he was around.

But, it was not the boy's characteristic sense of justice and loyalty that attracted so much attention this afternoon in the schoolyard during a break from studies. Instead it was the boy, Watson's, curiously discovered unique ability.

It came about when Molly, one of the younger girls in the class, brought cherries in her lunch to share with the other girls. "Can I have a few?" Watson had cajoled the brown-haired, shy Molly. "Please?" His earnest blue eyes were impossible for anyone to resist.

Molly held out her satchel of cherries and Watson was soon happily munching on the delectable red fruit, spitting the cherry pits as far as he could across the lawn.

"Bet you can't shoot it as far as Sherlock's," Sally teased. The elusive dark haired recluse had joined in the sport and managed an impressive distance as far as cherry spitting was concerned.

The crowded roared with laughter at Watson's repetitive and yet futile attempts to best Sherlock. His cheeks flushed deep red, more from embarrassment although the strenuous effort had exerted its toll on his lung reserves. In a desperate attempt to steal the show back from the new hero of the day, Watson made a brilliant innovation. "Hey, guys, look what I can do instead," he called out boldly to the other children. "anyone can shoot cherry pits, but can anyone do this!" With seeming ease and dexterity, he took the stem of the cherry and twisted it into a knot with his tongue. "Voila! No hands. I dare anyone to beat that!" The challenge hung in the air. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

Sherlock tried. No luck. Others tried. In the end, Watson was crowned the clear victor. For the rest of the day, he clearly held the title of most talented cherry stem twister.

It was a small victory and only within a very limited group of primary school children. And yet, Sherlock never forgot.

~221b~

Many years later…

"Holmes, I cannot fathom how you manage to blow such incredibly shaped smoke rings. That last puff was a triple ring even! Amazing! Where did you ever learn?" Watson was impressed by his friend's talented smoke-ring creations.

Holmes let out an enigmatic smile. "Practice, ol' boy. Practice. Some of us are skilled in linguistics; others in the art of smoking. Tell me, can that linguistically tongue of yours still twist a cherry stem into a knot?"

Watson smiled. "I can try…"


	12. Ch: 16, 17, 18, 19: London and Paris

**Dates: Dec. 16, 17, 18, & 19**

**Prompts:**

**"A Tale of Two Cities" – Emma Lynch**

**"Hug" – silvermouse**

**"Holmes Discovers There is more to Watson's History in the Army than the Beginning of A Study in Scarlet would suggest" – Hades Lord of the Dead**

**"Watson and Holmes get more than they bargained for when they buy a goose" Poseidon God of the Seas**

**Chapter 16, 16, 18, & 19: Paris, Not London**

* * *

><p>"Holmes, remind me again why we are in Paris out in the middle of winter with near frostbite, slugging through dirty slush and disgusting human refuse, instead of exploring the new engineering feat, the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the exhibits at the faire?" Watson grimaced as his soggy boots splashed mud up another few notches on his trousers.<p>

Holmes gave his comrade a withering glance. Such rhetorical questions were mere distracters. "You know my methods," he grumbled.

"Only too well," Watson sighed and stumbled after the keen detective with rapid step. "I just thought that perhaps since this is, after all, only a goose that we are searching for, you might have a bit more lenience and indulge in a bit of the Parisian flair. I mean, we are looking for ONE missing goose."

"Irrelevant information, Watson. Do not bog my brain down with useless trivia," the lean man replied with an impatient sniff. "And, do, keep up."

"Waste of a perfectly good French holiday," Watson muttered under his breath. "Stupid lost goose."

~221b~

"Honk, honk!" the white plumed fowl grated against Watson's ears as it sung out its greetings.

"This is perfectly wonderful, Mr Holmes!" The commissionaire effused. "How can I ever thank you? You are like a magician, eh?" He smiled affectionately and reached out and grabbed the detective by the shoulders, pulling him toward him for the customary cheek kisses. One, two, and… three, except the third kiss rather resulted in an awkward bump between Holmes' nose and the commissionaire's lips. "Pardon," he lowered his eyes momentarily and stepped back.

Holmes gave an awkward chuckle and tried to resume the light-hearted banter. "A magician with geese instead of rabbits."

Having learned through his colleagues' blunders, Watson more gracefully navigated all three cheek blow-by kisses. "My colleague, Mr Holmes, is not without talent, I will admit," Watson smiled politely. "He is also, I'm afraid, overly fond of the dramatic fat times. I do apologise if he caused you any discomfort over his theatrical trick of presenting the recovered bird."

"Oh, no, not at all. I am just happy to be reunited with my Lucy." The commissionaire stroked the contented goose resting in the crook of his arm. "I don't know what I would have told my children, and my wife, if you two had not been able to find our fine pet, this Lucy. She is an exceptional goose," he cooed soothingly to the feathered fowl. The goose did not complain.

Holmes nodded tightly and slipped his fee for his services into his pocket. As the pair departed the commissionaire's office, Holmes turned to his hungry companion, "Enough for a decent meal in Paris perhaps. Shall we?"

Watson was only too willing to comply. "

~221b~

Sometime later that evening, as the two looked out over the city outline newly furnished with the iconic Eiffel tower, a change from Big Ben and the rows of houses in Baker Street, Holmes broke the silence. "Watson, you know, the commissionaire may be a bit disappointed in our goose that we found him."

"Well, he certainly wasn't the owner of a pet goose, but why did he want that particular one?" Watson wondered aloud.

"Your powers of observation outshine themselves, my friend, perhaps we should forgo food more often while on a case? Do, enlighten me as to how you have correctly deduced that the commissionaire was not a goose-lover as he so claimed."

"Impeccable dress – not a feather or a smudge to be seen on his uniform," Watson stated. "Argues against his claim to fatherhood as well."

Holmes nodded.

"I could smell a fowl cooking in the background, could have been duck but more likely it was goose that I smelled roasting over the fire, an unlikely dish for a man with children and a wife attached to a pet goose."

"Quite true," Holmes murmured approvingly.

"Besides that, the commissionaire stated he was married but he bore no inkling of a ring on his finger, neither did he have even one photo of a girl in his office. Much more likely that he is single. What I still don't understand is why he wanted that particular goose though."

"That is the reason I took the case in the first place," the detective intoned. "It appears that the commissionaire is under the delusion that fairy tales are true."

"Oh?"

"Goose that laid the golden egg," the tall man stretched back in his chair lazily with a bored yawn. "Doesn't exist. He thinks it does."

Watson smiled softly over at his disbelieving friend. "Not a literal golden egg, anyway, my logical rational friend."

Holmes yawned and closed his eyes. "Golden eggs are over-rated."

Watson chuckled. "You might be surprised that I once dated one of those elusive fowls with golden egg-laying abilities."

The dark-haired detective cracked one eye open with a query of an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

Watson smiled at the memory. "She was quite beautiful too… and French."

Holmes sat up to listen. He rubbed his cheek at the memory of his fateful encounter with the commissionaire's triple kiss greeting. "I think, Watson, that there are advantages to the old-fashioned English handshake in London, perhaps I can even tolerate a hug or two; but, kissing is going to take some further analysis."

Watson grinned. He remembered his French kisses rather vividly – quite pleasant recollections, actually. The hugs weren't bad either. "They get easier with practice," he replied with a smirk at his friend.

~221b~

H – hugely

U – underutilised

G – greetings;

S – start now

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><p>A<strong>N: Hugs, my readers! Hope you don't mind my collusion of story prompts once again. New job; new computer system… you understand the angst there LOL!**


	13. Ch 20-25: A Country House Whodonit

**Prompts 20-25:**

**Subject: 20th Dec Prompt From mrspencil -...A country house whodunnit**

**Subject: 21st Dec Prompt From TemporarilyAbaft - A mischievous Watson gets a hold of excess wrapping supplies – ribbons and papers and the like.**

**Subject: 22nd Dec Prompt From Hades Lord of the Dead - Doctor Watson is bone weary.**

**Subject: 23rd and 24th Dec Prompts**

**23. From Garonne - What a pleasant surprise!**

**24. From W. Y. Traveller - Holmes inadvertently destroys Mrs. Hudson's goose and has to obtain a new one on Christmas Eve.**

**Subject: 25th Dec Prompt - Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it :) From I'm Nova - Love**

**A/N: Have fun finding the individual prompts in this story! I had fun combining them. Solution at the end. Quotes referenced at the end as well. Don't forget to watch an episode of Roobarb!**

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><p>Chapters 20-25: A Country House Whodonit<p>

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><p>"Murder, Watson," Sherlock Holmes pronounced and turned on his heel, shoving his magnifying glass into his pocket as he exited the Duke's parlour room.<p>

"But how can you be so sure it's murder?" Watson glanced back at the corpse, the Duke's father-in-law, Sir Roland, who apparently killed himself with a noose around his neck, was hanging from one of the large beams of the ceiling's country mansion. "Not every suicide is a murder. Just because you haven't had a case in a while doesn't mean that this unfortunate gentleman's demise represents foul play."

"Foul play and murder," Holmes stated again.

"But it's Christmas Eve and it's the Duke's country estate, how can it be murder?"

"Because it is. You know how I feel about the country anyway, Watson," Holmes grimaced at the memories of all the evils the serene countryside must have witnessed over the decades (1).

"Yes, I'm aware of your country suspicions but that doesn't necessarily make every hanging a murder," Watson persisted.

"This one is murder, Watson," Holmes hopped into the cab with Watson beside and directed the driver to the nearest tavern.

As the two sat down in the country tavern to share a pint (as usual, Watson sipped while Holmes smoked and thought), the detective observed the plaster bits and shiny residue under his friend's fingernails. "I see you've been indulging in the traditional festivities of the Christmas season," he remarked.

"Well, yes," Watson answered, startled momentarily. "But how did you know? I've been up all night wrapping individualised gifts for the upcoming Christmas party at the Duke's estate tonight, not to mention hiding these small bones for the big game **. The Duke wants to have a sort of treasure hunt for all his guests. There will be prizes at the end for the treasure seekers who find the most bones. I've been wrapping gifts and stuffing bones into crevices and under parlour furniture for what seems like ages. I never heard anything suspicious from Sir Roland's office."

"No matter, I'm sure he was killed. Mark my words."

"I have." Watson sighed. He was, pardon the pun, 'bone weary' from all the festive preparations of wrapping gifts and hiding bones.

Nevertheless, he hoisted himself out of his seated position and followed Holmes all over the countryside investigating the affairs of Sir Roland and his supposed murder. The local country police inspector came. The coroner was on holiday, of course.

"Watson, would be happy to help," Holmes volunteered his friend's medical expertise to the country inspector.

"Death by hanging, cannot determine whether self-inflicted or not based on the physical findings of my medical examination of the corpse." Watson sat back and assured his astute eager detective companion.

"Are you sure," Holmes poked his nose and sniffed at the corpse's face while peering in for a closer review of the ligature marks around the neck.

"Positive, Holmes. I still can't see why you are so convinced Sir Ronald was murdered. The Duke and I were the only ones up last night when the victim died. Neither of heard anything suspicious, I swear. Both of us were busy burying bones and wrapping the gifts. The Duke is a generous man and personally chose a gift for each person on the invitation list – 55 boxes to wrap!" Watson wiped his brow with a weary hand at the memory.

Suddenly his eyes bulged. "Holmes, what are you doing?!" he cried out in dismay at the sight of the detectives latest research in the morgue laboratory. The lean detective was bending over a clearly dead goose, hanging limply by a rope wrapped tightly around his neck.

"I'm studying the distances in the cervical vertebrae that occur based on the type of hanging. This goose's neck provided the perfect subject upon which to initiate my research," Holmes gave his friend a quick glance as if it should be perfectly clear for all to observe and why was he bothering to ask.

"But, Holmes," Watson studied the marking on the bird. "That appears to be the goose that Mrs Hudson bought yesterday for the Christmas dinner tomorrow. There will be no need to worry about Sir Ronald and whether he was murdered when she discovers her Christmas goose has been used for an experiment. She'll hang us personally!"

At that, Holmes paused in his investigations of the gooses' neck length and blinked rapidly several times. "You may have a valid point, there Watson. This could pose a serious threat to further investigation. I may need to rectify the situation sooner than I'd have anticipated."

"Much sooner," Watson mumbled to himself.

"I heard that," the detective replied. "I am sure another goose can be found for Mrs Hudson in time for tomorrow's dinner."

"Have you tried to purchase one today?" Watson asked in disbelief. "Everyone, it appears, wanted a Christmas goose. There are none to be had."

"Details. Don't bother me with the details. Get me my measuring tape," Holmes dismissed all thought of procuring a replacement goose as he measured.

Watson shook his head. "Incurable"

That evening, in spite of the recent disaster, the Duke hosted his Christmas treasure hunt as planned. Holmes seems particularly interested in the guest invitee list and kept track as each couple arrived and their name was ticked off. "

"It appears the Duke's Christmas party was a success," Holmes spoke up as the last of the party-goers finally excited the country mansion.

"Everyone that was invited showed up. All the gifts have been handed out. Most of the bones were found. The servants have done wonders keeping the place tidy and the guests all commented on how delicious the food was…" Watson's voice trailed off as a great post-party coma began to descend upon his tired brain.

"One box remains, Watson. Is that Sir Ronald's, the dead man's?"

"Oh no, Holmes," Watson smiled, suddenly less weary. His smiled broadened and his blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "That one is for you."

"But I've already collected my gift from the Duke," Holmes protested.

"No, this one is an extra. From me to you." Watson grabbed the festive wrapped box and handed it to his partner.

Holmes' expression was one of shock that softened into appreciative gratitude as his long time friend handed it to him.

"Open it, Holmes," he insisted with an eager grin.

Holmes' expression when he pulled out the deerstalker cap was priceless! Watson still chuckles over it to this day.

"Huh? How is one supposed to know which direction is front and back," the detective had puzzled over the orientation, placing it one one way, then the other.

"A mystery at both ends… (2)" Watson chortled.

"I'll never get your limits (3)," Holmes finally laughed good naturedly. After all, it was Christmas. "I think, Watson, that our time here is complete. Shall we go home?" Holmes proposed.

"More than ready, Holmes," Watson agreed. "But Holmes, what are you going to tell the Inspector about the death of Sir Ronald?"

"That he was clearly murdered and I know who did it. I have proof now too."

"You do? How?"

"The gifts. The Duke…." Holmes continued to elaborate as the pair made their way home to 221B Baker Street.

"Amazing!" Watson shook his head impressed as ever with his friend's deductive logical abilities.

Suddenly the genius detective with all the logical abilities in the world froze on the doorstep of their apartment. "Watson, the goose! I forgot all about it! What are we going to do? You are correct in that Mrs Hudson will murder us without her Christmas goose."

"You forgot to buy a new one, didn't you Holmes?" Watson sighed, not surprised.

"I was involved in a case. You know how I get." Holmes looked a bit panicked.

"Then I have one more Christmas surprise for you, my friend," Watson smirked. With a wave of his hand he summoned the cab driver that fished around in the rear of their carriage and brought round a very large and plump Christmas goose.

Holmes smiled gratefully at his friend. "Now you are the amazing one, doctor. I am pleasantly surprised!"

Watson grinned. "Shall we go up?"

"Definitely!"

The pair ascended the 17 steps to 221B.

Merry Christmas – to those who celebrate it… and to those who don't, Merry Christmas anyway (4)!

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><p><strong>AN:**

**** Inspired from an episode of Roobard "When Custard Got Too Near The Bone". Recommended watching on YouTube: watch?v=I4aVXeDg3U4**

**The numbers correlate with the actual ACD quotes from which I was inspired.**

**If you haven't already guessed, Holmes knew that the Duke must have been responsible for Sir Ronald's death. The duke had personally wrapped a gift for each invitee on the party list. All the boxes were given out. There was no gift for Sir Ronald. The Duke had not purchased a gift for Sir Ronald since he knew he was planning on killing him before.**

**1) "The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."**

**Copper Beeches, ACD**

**2) I am sorry. I am accustomed to have mystery at one end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I fear, Sir James, that I must decline to act."**

**The Illustrious Client, ACD**

**3) "I never get your limits, Watson,' said Holmes. 'There are unexplored possibilities about you."**

**The Sussex Vampire, ACD**

**4) Come at once if convenient — if inconvenient come all the same.**

**The Adventure of the Creeping Man, ACD**


	14. Ch: 26,27,29 A Rotund Occupant

**Chapter 26, 27, & 29: A Rotund Occupant**

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><p><strong>Subject: 26th Dec From mrspencil - ...A confrontation on the Thames<strong>

**Subject: 27th Dec From Stutley Constable - Home again. Thank goodness!**

**Subject: 29th Dec From Sendai - Who is this rotund individual, and what is he doing in my chair?**

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><p>Holmes tossed his outer coat onto the nearest receptacle, which in this case, much to Mrs Hudson's dismay, happened to be the long-suffering floor.<p>

"Home again. Thank goodness!" Watson exclaimed and with a heartfelt sigh sunk gratefully into his chair by the fire.

Holmes grunted in agreement as he rummaged around for his pipe and tobacco. "Sometimes the truth is infinitely stranger than the most grotesque dream of the human imagination, Watson."

Watson shivered again, this time not from the cold but from the memory of their recent investigation.

"_There is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible_," Holmes found his tobacco at last and began to fill his pipe meticulously with it. So absorbed was he in filling it that he barely glanced down as he prepared to inhabit his customary smoking chair by the fire and absorb its radiant heat.

"Good Lord!" his languid eyes shot wide open and his surprised mouth forgot to grip the stem allowing tobacco and pipe to go tumbling freely forward – again, much to Mrs Hudson's dismay later that day. "What is this rotund individual?" He bent over and peered more closely with his magnifying glass at a certain creature occupying his chair, apparently quite comfortable.

"What are you doing in my chair?" Holmes wrinkled his nose as his sublimely tuned olfactory receptors took in the musky odour of the rotund occupant. The pocket-sized spiny mammal chose to wake up and poke it little pig-like snout upward at the giant human. It blinked its liquid-black eyes and squinted in equal surprise at the lean-detective wielding a strange glass thingy in a defensive posture overhead stared down.

At the sound of Holmes' excited exclamation, Watson's curiosity roused him from his chair and he poked his head around his partner for a look at the spectacle. "Hum?" he pushed his spectacles up on his nose and strained for a closer look. "He appears to be a mammal of the subfamily, Erinaceinae." The doctor scratched the back his head and meandered over to his reference books.

"What should we do with him?" Watson asked rather too calmly. "I doubt Mrs Hudson would take kindly to yet another eccentric lodger in 221B."

"I concur with you on that deduction, Watson," Holmes answered while his brain frantically calculated all the possibilities for extracting the animal from his chair. Before his mind could settle on the best possible solution though, Watson efficiently swiped the little creature up in his hands with the assistance of a tea cloth he'd swiped from the kitchen in one efficient swoop.

"He is rather cute once you get used to the spines," Watson smirked as he held the spiny cloth-bound, protesting bundle in his hands. The animal glared out from Watson's restraining hands and crossed his paws in protest.

"Cheeky mammal," Holmes observed warily. "A bit of an attitude there."

"Must be something in the chair," Watson muttered to himself.

"I'll send Billy a telegram to come. He is a resourceful young man. I'm sure he will know of someone who would like such an exotic pet." Holmes quickly scribbled the appropriate note.

Watson soothed the spiny handful into a box by the fire where the warmth soon placated his angry squeaks. "I don't think I've ever seen a hedgehog up close like this before. Fascinating."

When Billy arrived he was more than happy to take the animal off Holmes and Watson's hands. "Thank you, Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I happen to know a zoologist that will teach me how to properly feed and care for him. Wow!" he glanced adoringly down into the hedgehog's box. "The other boys are going to be so jealous."

Holmes smiled.

As Billy was about to head out the door, he paused. "Oh, Mr Holmes," he bowed and shifted his gaze, "Dr Watson, I did have one little riddle for you. We had a bit of confrontation down at the Thames and one of the boys challenged us with a riddle. I thought perhaps you might help us out?"

"Do tell, Billy." Holmes grinned. Anything to exercise his grey cells. "Watson and I will try."

"Ok, here goes." Billy took a breath and recited from memory:

"What can run but never walks,

Has a mouth but never talks,

Has a bed but never sleeps,

Has a head but never weeps?"

Watson took a sip of tea and thought. Holmes was silent for barely a second before a satisfied expression flooded his face. "Ah, Billy, clever of the boy to give you this riddle down at the Thames."

"Really?" Billy looked confused.

"Indeed, Billy. The Thames is your answer after all." He smiled.

Billy was silent a moment as the realisation caught up. "Oh!" he said at last. A satisfied grin spread across his face as his brain figured out the riddle. "The river. The answer is the river, Thames! Isn't it, Mr Holmes?"

"Precisely, Billy." Holmes tapped a pipe of approval in the lad's direction. "I think we can safely say you've won this particular confrontation on the Thames." He winked.

Billy smiled.


	15. Ch 28: Icicles

**Date: Dec 28th**

**Prompt: Icicles make excellent murder weapons. They're sharp, and they melt.**

**From: Catherine Spark**

**Warnings: Written without much time for editing. Apologies in advance! Hopefully the logic makes sense. See author's note at end for explanations.**

**Chapter 28: Icicles**

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><p>"<em>Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficulties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems."<em> STUD.

So began Holmes on one of those rare mornings when he felt inclined toward the philosophical.

"What are you driving at?" Watson queried. He was suddenly wary of his compatriot's philosophical prose. Such moods boded ill but whether it would be the ill fortune of the criminal or the wall, the doctor wasn't sure. As for the sensitive doctor, he was still recovering from last week's disaster where the young female victim was carried into a dark room, and set on fire. In spite of her copious weeping no mercy was extended by her captures. Her golden head was cut off (1).

But Holmes' mind has already moved onto the latest case. "The ice murderer, Watson, illustrates the depravity of the human imagination. After turning it over in my mind all night, I have settled on the only possible solution. As I've often said, '…_when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_' SIGN. "The victim was murdered. There was no weapon obtainable save for the readily available and, admittedly conveniently placed sharp daggers of icicles. And after the deadly deed was committed, the evidence melted. I am surprised, myself, now that I consider it, why icicles are not used more routinely by criminals.

Watson arched an eyebrow in the eccentric detective's direction. "Really, Holmes," he muttered.

"Still, the question remains, Watson," he turned toward his long-suffering friend vainly trying to ignore his morning's morbid musings. "How did the sharp ice sword piece and fatally wound the victim? I recall no obvious stab wounds on the body and yet I am sure he was killed by such a weapon."

Holmes knit his thick dark brows together in intense concentration and gave his doctor friend a few blessed moments of silence.

Watson sighed with relief and went back to his morning paper and tea. Suddenly he stopped mid sip. "Oh!" he smiled to himself. With a slow grin of realisation spreading across his features, he turned toward Holmes still concentrating, morosely silent against the gears of logic grinding away in his unfathomable brain.

"Oh Holmes," Watson called.

"Don't disturb me when I'm thinking, Watson," Holmes swatted at an invisible fly with an irritated whine.

"But I have the answer as to how our victim was killed by the icicle without an apparent stab-wound."

Holmes' eyes flew open. "Do tell!"

Watson outlined in clinical detail how the murder was committed. Holmes nodded. "I believe you're correct."

Watson smiled.

"For an old man, you can still surprise me." Holmes gave his 221B flat mate and partner in criminal investigation a genuine smile of appreciation.

"_'__Education never ends Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last'_ (SIGN). Thank you. I am reminded today that I am still a student."

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><p><strong>AN:**

**1. The murder mentioned here where the young victim had her "head cut off" refers to the common riddle about a candle. Think about… dark room, lit on fire, cut…. Yeah. Not quite so gruesome now?**

**2. The solution to how a criminal might stab and fatally wound someone with an icicle without an obvious entry wound… try stabbing through the tympanic membrane through the ear into the brain. Not sure if it would work but seemed plausible at least.**


	16. Ch 30 & 31: Fol de Riddle

**Date: Dec 30 and 31**

**Prompts: Holmes breaks a string from Stutley Constable & What on earth has happened here? From Garonne.**

**Warnings: Silliness and rhyme!**

**A/N: No idea what entered my champagned muse's brain… as the prompt says, "what on earth has happened here?"…. yeah…that will probably be most readers' responses as they peer below LOL!**

**Chapter 30 & 31: Fol de Riddle**

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><p>A violin bow across a dead bloke,<p>

Say heigh ho, the violin bow,

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi string low,

Did the man die of a stroke?

Say heigh ho, the violin bow,

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi string low.

~o~

Watson, the mystery I will know,

Say heigh ho, the violin bow,

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi string low,

See the string upon that bow?

Say heigh ho, the violin bow,

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi string low.

~o~

The victim he broke a string in the dark

Say heigh ho, the violin bow,

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi string low,

He shot himself, unfortunate spark.

Say heigh ho, the violin bow,

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi string low.

~o~

Moral of the story:

If you're a nursery rhyme character, beware of a series of unfortunate events when one's violin string breaks!

**Happy New Year!**

~221b~

**A/N: based on the template of a lesser known old nursery rhyme: The Carrion Crow**

_A carrion crow sat on an oak,_

_Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,_

_Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho,_

_Watching a tailor shape his coat._

_Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,_

_Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho._

_Wife, bring me my old bent bow,_

_Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,_

_Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho,_

_That I may shoot yon carrion crow._

_Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,_

_Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho._

_The tailor he shot and missed his mark,_

_Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,_

_Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho,_

_And shot his own sow right through the heart._

_Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,_

_Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho._


End file.
